


Bell, Book, and Scandal

by Cinaed



Series: The Best of Carolina The Teenage Witch [5]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sabrina the Teenage Witch Fusion, Developing Relationship, First Meetings, Gen, Illustrations, Magic, POV Alternating, Pre-Slash, Stealth Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 01:48:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16944693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: Prepare yourselves for 1x12 Bell, Book, and Scandal, the first iconic mid-season finale ofCarolina: The Teenage Witch. It's a wild, wild ride. Who knew Church misplacing his spellbook at school would kick off so much plot? Who realized how important this episode would be in the grand scheme of things? And that big twist was something nobody saw coming!





	Bell, Book, and Scandal

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the mid-season finale and one of the reasons I even started writing this series. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I do.
> 
> We have some amazing artwork from [creatrixanimi](http://creatrixanimi.tumblr.com/) for this update! 
> 
> Thanks go out to Aryashi, taller, and creatrixianimi for letting me bounce ideas off of them, and Aryashi for whipping this fic into shape.

It’s been a month since Carolina’s first day of class, and she’s never seen Lopez smile. He’s certainly not smiling now, his arms crossed as everyone avoids his eyes and hopes that they won’t get called on.

“¿Alguien quiere tratar de hablar español en mi clase? ¿La clase que eliges tomar? ¿Nadie? ¿Nadie?” No one answers, and he sighs. “No sé por qué me molesto en intentarlo. Ninguno de ustedes quiere estar aquí.”

There’s defeat in his voice, and Carolina gives in. She raises her hand and says, “Lo siento, Señor López. Creo que todos están avergonzados por sus acentos.”

His eyes brighten. “Eso no es nada de lo que deba preocuparse--” The bell rings. Over the sudden rustling of bags and the scraping of chairs on linoleum, Lopez growls, “Lea el Capítulo Seis y trate de aprender algunas palabras. No te preocupes por tus acentos.”

“You’re such a cheater,” Niner whispers to Carolina, though she grins as she says it. “Why take Spanish when you already know it?”

Carolina shrugs. “Doctor Grey suggested it. I have to take a language to graduate, but she thought I had enough on my plate to add a new language. Apparently speaking multiple languages doesn't count unless you've taken classes. Besides, I think I’m the only person keeping Mr. Lopez from quitting in despair.”

Niner snorts. “Yeah, this whole full immersion thing isn’t really working for him.”

There are some loud complaints from the hallway. Then Church comes skidding into the classroom, sweating and breathless like he’s sprinted from the other side of the school. He looks relieved when he spots Carolina. “Uh hey, Carolina, can I talk to you right now about something? It, uh, totally isn't a big deal but like right now. _Please._ " His voice cracks slightly.

Carolina’s stomach sinks. The last few days have been almost peaceful, or at least relatively uneventful, which amounts to the same thing in Carolina’s book. Of course that couldn’t last. “Okay,” she says, and then glances around, wondering how they can have a private conversation in the middle of school.

Lopez says dryly, “Por supuesto, tener una discusión privada en mi aula. Solo estaré aquí, pruebas de clasificación.”

“I’ll see you later,” Niner says, giving them a curious look before she shoulders her backpack. It’s easy to see why she’s one of the stars of the soccer team; she spins around Simmons rather than collides with him as he appears in the doorway.

“James, were you running in the hallway?”

“Uh,” Church says. He licks his lips, clearly scrambling for a lie.

“He’s not feeling well,” Carolina says quickly. It’s the first thing that comes to mind when the fluorescent lights catch the sheen of sweat on Church’s face. “I was going to walk him to the nurse’s office.”

“Oh,” Simmons says. He looks concerned even as he takes a step back, clearly not wanting to catch whatever Church has. “I heard there’s a flu going around. Poor North has been out since Monday. Mr. DuFresne might want to just send you straight home. Remember to drink plenty of liquids and get some rest!”

“That’s probably it. The flu,” Carolina says. She takes Church by the arm. “We should go.”  

As soon as they’re in the middle of the hallway, she whispers, “What’s the problem?”

Church laughs weakly. He avoids her eyes. His shoulders go up around his ears, and he bites his lip. “So, you know that book you told me not to bring to school?”

The spellbook, he means. “Yes,” Carolina says. Her eyes narrow. “What about it?”

“I may have brought it to school.”

“ _Church._ ”

“And...I don’t know where it is.”  

“What?” Carolina hisses. “You lost your spel-- you lost the _book_? Where?”

Church rolls his eyes. “If I knew that, we wouldn’t be having this conversation! But it’s not in my bag or locker, and I just retraced my steps and it’s not in any of my classes so-- Help?”

“What do you want me to do?” A few students glance their way, and Carolina lowers her voice. “I’m still learning the basics. I can’t snap my fingers and get your book back!”

Church scowls. “If it was that easy I’d have done it myself. Do you think I want you to go all I-told-you-so on me? But we need your book. I’m sure it has a location--” His voice changes as Caboose bounds up to them, turning forced and artificial. “I’m sure we can find a recipe for my stomach problem.”

“Oh no, are you sick?” Caboose says, his face falling. He pats Church on the back with exaggerated care. “I can bring over some chicken noodle soup. That always makes me feel better.”  

Church grimaces. He’s got that weird look on his face that he always wears around Caboose, a mixture of annoyance and amusement. He takes a careful step back, trying to get out of Caboose’s reach. “Thanks, Caboose. But you’d better stay away. You don’t want to get sick before your next game, right?”

“Oh, I don’t get sick!” Caboose says. “The last time I did was in kindergarten when everyone got chicken pox.”

“That’s good,” Church says, clearly not listening. He chews his bottom lip. “Carolina?”  

She sighs. “You know what, Caboose? I think I’m coming down with the flu too. We’ll talk to you later, okay?” Then she grabs Church’s arm again and pulls him down the hallway towards the nurse’s office. Back to a whisper, she asks, “Do you think someone has your book?”

Church looks panicked at the idea. “I don’t know, maybe?”

Carolina is about to scold him, but at the growing dread in his face, she relents a little.  She shrugs. “You said it yourself, mortals will just think it's some fantasy novel handbook. What's the worst that can happen?”

 

* * *

 

“I hate the flu season,” Simmons mutters to himself, retreating into his classroom to grab the nearest antibacterial soap. He knows that it doesn’t do any good against a potential virus, but it still makes him feel better.  He pours a generous dollop of it into his palm and rubs his hands together, wincing at the unexpected sting from a paper-cut.

Then he sits down at his desk and takes a deep breath. “Okay,” he says, glad that he’s on his free period and there’s no one to hear him babble. “Okay, let’s just-- let’s just see what we have.” He opens the top drawer and pulls out the book. The leather is worn smooth and yellowed with age. He traces the gold lettering.

“The Discovery of Magic.”

His voice squeaks on the final word, and he flushes, even though there’s no one around to hear him. “You know what? I think I’m coming down with something.” He tries out a fake cough. It probably won’t convince anyone, but luckily Principal Larue doesn’t care. “I’d better go home.”

When Simmons gets to his apartment, the book sandwiched safely between Dungeons magazines and ungraded tests in his satchel, everything is quiet. He starts unwrapping the scarf from around his neck, fumbling a little, his hands shaking with nerves. What if he’s wrong? What if he’s remembered incorrectly? What if this book is just a book, and he’s an idiot?

Claws click across the wooden floor as a voice drawls, “You’re back early. Is there a half-day I forgot about or did Larue fire you?”

“Very funny,” Simmons says, but it sounds weird to his own ears. He closes his eyes and tries to take a breath, but he’s too keyed up. His mouth is dry, and if he doesn’t do something, he’s going to vibrate out of his skin. Figuratively. “Um, so I found something? And I think-- it might be, um-- maybe I’m wrong, but uh--”

“Spit it out, dude.”

Simmons pulls out the book.

“Okay,” Grif says after a moment. Simmons is surprised all over again by how expressive his feline face can be. It radiates suspicion and alarm as his tail begins to twitch. “So you have a spellbook. That’s....sure a thing that’s happening.”

“So it’s real?” Simmons’ knees go weak. He sits down abruptly, the book clutched to his chest.

Grif pads closer, his tail still twitching. His ears flick sideways. He goes up on his hind legs, bracing himself on Simmons’ knee, and sniffs. “Yeah. Doesn’t smell too musty, so it’s probably not a family spellbook. Where’d you find it?”

“At school,” Simmons says. He laughs a little shakily. “In study hall. It was under one of the tables. I-- I knew there was a witch at Westbridge! All the strange things, like that indoor snow storm and-- I knew it!”  
  
“Uh huh,” Grif says, unimpressed. “So some dumb teenage witch lost their book and you stole it. What do you plan to do with it?”  
  
Simmons grins at him, too giddy to object to being called a thief. “Experiment.”

 

* * *

 

  

* * *

 

**_Seven months earlier_ **

Simmons botched his interview. He knows it down to his bones. The entire time he’s answering Principal Larue and Vice-Principal Kraft’s questions, a voice in the back of his head that sounds like his father tells him that he’s saying all the wrong things.

When he pushes open the exit, it’s to the sight of a torrential downpour, like the weather wants to match his mood. He opens up his umbrella and and steps outside. Almost immediately the wind yanks the umbrella out of his hands. He watches, forlornly, as it blows across the parking lot and gets wedged under someone’s car.

“Great,” he sighs. He’s soaked through by the time he gets to his umbrella. When he crouches to grab the handle, he sees a flicker of movement under the car. He pauses, squinting, and then leans forward. Rain slides under his coat collar and he shivers. “Hello?” he says, feeling stupid as soon as he says it.

A miserable meow answers him. A bedraggled cat squirms partially out from under the car, using the umbrella as half cover. It blinks a pair of mismatched eyes at him.

Simmons does an automatic glance around, hoping someone else will come jogging up, asking if he’s seen their cat, but there’s no one else in the parking lot. “Oh, uh, hey, kitty,” he says. “Where’s your collar?” He reaches out a tentative hand and then stops as the cat skitters backwards, ears flattening against its head. “Hey, it’s okay.”

The cat eyes him warily, but at least doesn’t bolt. After a few seconds, it even creeps back out and accepts a careful scratch under its chin. Its fur is ice cold and wet against Simmons’ fingertips.  

“Where’s your home? Or are you a stray?” Simmons makes a face, feeling even more stupid than before. “Like you can answer me. But you can’t stay outside in this storm.” He looks around hopefully, but anyone with sense is inside, waiting out the rain.  He sighs. “I guess you could stay with me tonight. Then I’ll take you to the animal shelter to see if someone’s looking for you.”

The cat doesn’t respond, but then Simmons didn’t expect it to. It crawls completely out from under the car at least, and doesn’t fight him when Simmons tucks his umbrella awkwardly under one arm and then picks up the cat.

His car is going to smell of wet fur for the rest of the week, unless Simmons spends some of his dwindling savings on a thorough cleaning. The cat curls up on the passenger seat and falls asleep like someone’s flipped a switch. Simmons doesn’t turn on the radio. Instead the pattering of rain and the cat’s snuffling breaths fill the car. “It’s just for tonight,” he says to himself as the cat shifts in its sleep. Rescuing a cat and reuniting it with its owner is a good distraction from obsessing how badly he bombed that interview. He clenches his fists on the steering wheel, scowling out at the rain and swallowing against disappointment.

He’s never getting a job at Westbridge High.  

 

* * *

 

**Present day**

Grey scarcely bothers to hides her excited curiosity when DuFresne tells her that he’s worried Carolina and Church have the flu. Her eyes settle on Church, and he’s already scowling even before she drums emerald green nails on the desk and says, “So they both have the flu?”

“That’s what they say!” DuFresne says cheerfully. He offers her his lollipop bowl. “Lollipop?”

“No thank you. James, Carolina, I’ll take you home.”

As soon as they’re all in the privacy of Grey’s car, she says, “Now, unless my eyes deceive me, Carolina is in the pink of health. So what is going on? Is the spell finally unraveling?” She sounds hopeful. “I should run a few diagnostic spells when we get to the brownstone.”

Church glares and raises his thumb to his mouth.

Without any change in tone, Grey says, “If you bite your thumb at me again, I _will_ make it disappear.”  

Church lowers his hand. He says sullenly, “I’m not sick. We watched Ferris Bueller’s Day Off last night.” When Grey blinks at him, he rolls his eyes. “Famous 80s movie? The main guys skip school?”  

Grey looks disappointed for a second, and then annoyed, and then finally settles on being amused. “I see. And however did you convince Carolina to skip school with you?”

“I thought he was actually sick,” Carolina says. She lets some of her frustration over the missing spellbook creep into her voice, her tone harsh enough that Church shoots her a startled look. She frowns back.

“I suppose we can let it slide just this once,” Grey says. “Even back in my day, playing hooky was a youth’s rite of passage! But don’t make it a habit. I’m not explaining to your father why you’re failing high school.”

“This is a one-time thing,” Carolina swears.  

When they get back to the brownstone, Grey looks pensive. She opens up her pocketbook and pulls out her wallet. She retrieves a few dollars. “I believe that going to the movies is a staple of playing hooky. Do you have enough from your allowance, Carolina, or do you need more money for popcorn?”

“A couple dollars won’t hurt,” Church says quickly, and snatches the bills out of Grey’s hand. Then he gestures vaguely towards the stairs. “First I’m gonna--” He doesn’t bother to finish his sentence, just bolts upstairs.

He has her spellbook already out when she gets to her room. Scowling to himself as he flips through the pages, he mutters, “No, not a spell that tells you your perfect vacation spot, no, or one that tells you your exact longitude and latitude, no-- wait, yes. Locate lost item.” Then he groans and flops down on her bed.

“That’s not a good sound,” Carolina says dryly.

“We don’t have all the ingredients,” he says, one arm flung across his face. He sounds miserable. “Unless you happen to have a rowan seed lying around. Crap, Grey really _will_ take me apart if she realizes some mortal has my spellbook.” His voice gets higher and unhappier until it cracks.

“No, she won’t,” Carolina says, with more confidence than she feels. She sits down next to him and awkwardly pats his shoulder. He just groans again. “Kimball gave me access to her magical pantry.”

Church shifts so that he’s staring at her from the crook of his elbow. “Really?”  

Carolina nods.

His misery melts away like it never existed. Carolina’s a little annoyed by how quickly he goes from despairing to cocky. He sits upright, grinning at her. “Well, then we’re fine!”

Carolina raises both eyebrows. “Except that some mortal has your spellbook and Kimball’s going to ask why I need a rowan seed. And Grey thinks we’re going to the movies, so we need to do the spell fast.”

He dismisses those problems with a wave of his hand. “Kimball is still at that job interview, isn’t she? Go get the rowan seed. We can come up with an excuse later. I’ll find the rest of the ingredients.”

Carolina doesn’t think it’s that simple, but she sighs and goes to Kimball’s bedroom. She’s surprised all over again when she enters the dark room. She always expects the space to be as simple as Kimball’s attire, but the walls are cluttered with framed photographs of young witches celebrating getting their license. In almost all of them they’re beaming, arms flung around Kimball, whose face is almost unrecognizable from pride and happiness softening her features.  
  
In the corner of each photograph is a handwritten name. Carolina glances at a few of them as she crosses the room to the pantry.  
  
_Katherine Jensen. Antoine Bitters. John Smith. Charles Palomo. Jason Cunningham._

“Open,” she says softly to the pantry, tapping her finger against the lock. It creaks open. She pushes aside guilt. She’s not technically stealing. Kimball told her to use the pantry and try a few spells on her own. Kimball might not have intended for her to perform this particular spell, but magic is still magic, isn’t it?

Carolina scans the pantry. “Nutmeg, oak bark, oak seed, parsley, poison ivy, rosemary--” She snatches up the rowan seed container. It rattles quietly, and she realizes there’s only one seed. She grimaces and closes the pantry.

When she gets back to her room, Church isn’t there. She slides the seed into her pocket, frowning, and hears the sounds of an argument. She follows them to Church’s room, to find that Grey has Church trapped in another of her glowing purple diagnostic spells.

“I’m not sick,” Church hisses, his backpack clutched to his chest like he’s trying to ward off Grey. He turns an imploring look on Carolina. “Tell her I’m fine.”

“He’s fine,” Carolina says.

“Oh, I don’t believe anyone is sick!” Grey smiles. “But he did look peaky when I came into the nurse’s office. I’ve neglected certain implications of the clone spell. Does the botched spell mean he is invulnerable to the same illnesses as Leonard, or is he susceptible to mortal and witch diseases? I need to run a few tests before you two go to the movies.”

“Can’t they wait?”

Grey smiles brightly. “They could,” she says. The diagnostic spell keeps swirling.

Church groans.

Carolina sits down on Church’s bed. She surreptitiously touches the seed in her pocket to reassure herself it’s still there. Then she settles in to wait. At least, she reasons with herself, the mortal doesn’t know what he or she has. It’s not like they know magic exists.  

 

* * *

 

**Seven months earlier**

“We’re home,” Simmons says, struggling to juggle his key, his umbrella, and the cat to get inside his apartment without dropping all three. He manages it only because the cat doesn’t squirm. Instead it dangles like dead weight in the crook of his arm, blinking mismatched eyes up at him and yawning. “Well, I’m home. You’re just a temporary guest.” He shivers as he closes the door behind him. It had been a relatively warm day when he left for his job interview, but now the air conditioning breaks him out in goosebumps. His winter coat and cardigan are soaked through, and his pants cling clammily to his skin.

Simmons gets a mouthful of damp fur as the cat hits him in the face with its tail and leaps out of his grip.  It immediately jumps onto the couch, mud-stained paws kneading the previously pristine cushion before it flops down and seems to go straight back to sleep.

“My couch,” Simmons half-protests, and sighs. He peels off his jacket, hanging it up, and then kneels to take off his muddy shoes. He eyes the cat, getting a better look at it now that he’s not distracted by the rain or the drive. It’s soaked to the skin, brown and white fur matted. He makes a face. “Maybe I should give you a bath.” He looks down to tug his clammy sock off his foot. When he looks back up, the cat’s gone.

Simmons blinks. “Cat? Where did you go? Here, kitty kitty!”

Fifteen increasingly frantic minutes later, Simmons is about to smother himself with a pillow and put himself out of his misery. He’s checked everywhere and even triple-checked all possible exits. It’s like the cat has vanished.

“You can’t leave the poor cat in the rain, Simmons. You need to be a Good Samaritan, Simmons. It’ll just be one night, Simmons,” he mutters, checking the window latch in the kitchen for a fourth time. “And now you have a stray cat lost in your apartment. The animal shelter people are going to laugh at you.” He tries to think. His father doesn’t believe in pets, but that hadn’t stopped Simmons from reading books on the care and keeping of dogs in the futile hope that he might change his father’s mind. Cats can’t be too different than dogs, right? They like meat. Maybe if he puts out some food, he can coax the cat from wherever it’s hiding.

The tuna fish tin is halfway open when there’s a curious, “Meow?” by Simmons’ ankles.

Simmons looks down, relieved. “Where were you?” he demands, and then rolls his eyes at himself. “Great, you rescue one cat and immediately start acting like a weird cat person.”

“Meow,” the cat says, and jumps up on the counter. It immediately sticks its nose to the edge of the tin, making grumbling little sounds to itself. Its tail twitches. As Simmons watches, it hooks its claws under the half-opened top and tries to tug it off.  

“Well, you definitely have a home,” Simmons says. He looks at the mats forming in its fur, visible now that the hair has begun to dry a little in the air conditioning and amends, “Or at least had one.”

The cat ignores him, pawing unhappily at the tin.

Simmons takes the cat’s moment of distraction to glance down and check if the cat’s male or female. Male, unless cats and dogs are _much_ more different than Simmons ever thought possible. Simmons tugs the tuna away, ignoring the cat’s warning growl. “Calm down and let me open it.”

He barely manages to pull off the top before the cat headbutts his hand and buries his face in the tuna, chewing noisily. When Simmons drops the tin on the counter, he isn’t surprised that the cat wraps his paws around it and keeps eating.

Simmons frowns, noticing the loose skin now under the fur, like the cat’s lost weight recently. He’s still a big cat, but he looks underfed even to Simmons’ inexperienced eyes. The poor guy was probably a pampered house cat who got left behind when his owners moved.

The cat finishes off the tuna, and then the ham and turkey that Simmons pulls out from his fridge. He licks at his paw, and then eyes Simmons.

“We’ll save the salami for your breakfast,” Simmons says. He didn’t realize how expressive cats’ faces were; he swears that the cat’s expectant look turns to disappointment. “Besides, you probably need some water.” He grimaces. “Unless you’ve been drinking out of puddles or something.”

Maybe the cat has better self-preservation instincts than to drink from germ-filled puddles, though, because he drinks two bowls of water and then gives a quiet little sigh.

Simmons might have messed up his job interview, but at least he’s not completely incompetent at taking care of a cat. He hesitates, and then gives the cat a cautious scratch behind the ears.

The cat tenses, his tail moving slowly across the counter top, and then relaxes.

“I wonder what your name is,” Simmons muses. Then he shakes his head. “Not that it matters. You’re going to the shelter tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

**Present day**

It’s only Carolina’s second time in a movie theater, and she’s not enjoying the experience. The screen’s huge, the images are too bright and move too fast, the speakers are too loud, and Church isn’t helping as he alternates between fidgeting with anxious energy and sullenly eating half of the butter slathered popcorn.

Every so often, Grey leans down from the next row and helps herself to some of the popcorn. “This will be fun,” she says as the seemingly endless previews finally end and the movie begins, the credits rolling over the scenery of a small town called Greenleaf. “I haven’t been to the movies since they were still in black and white!”

“Right,” Church says through gritted teeth. “Great. Best day of playing hooky ever. Definitely wanted to do this with a woman who doesn’t think I’m a person.” The theater is mostly empty at 1 o’clock on a Wednesday, but someone still turns around to shush him.

On the screen, a teacher leans forward and recites a poem earnestly to his students. “And the sunlight clasped the earth and the moonbeams kissed the sea. What are all these kisses worth if thou kiss not me?”

Church whines, low and anguished, under his breath, and sinks down in his seat.

 

* * *

 

**Seven months earlier**

The cat is a regular Houdini.

The next three days fall into a frustrating pattern. Simmons wakes up, feeds the cat, and then blinks and somehow loses track of the cat, who has the unerring ability to know when it’s five o’clock and safe to come out from the pocket dimension he’s apparently slipped into. The cat eats some more, and then falls asleep on the couch, snuffling in his sleep. He’d be adorable if he wasn’t so annoying.  

Simmons briefly contemplates starving the cat out of hiding, but he’s not a _monster_.

Day four starts the same way and Simmons throws up his hands and shouts, “Is this your weird way of saying you want to stay here? I don’t even have a job. I can’t feed myself, much less a cat!”

There’s no answer. Not that he was expecting one. He sighs.

Finally, he calls the animal shelter and explains the situation. The woman’s sympathetic but firm that they don’t do house-calls. “I’ll ask around, see if anyone’s looking for a cat with that description. Though if you’re asking me, it sounds like he’s decided to adopt you,” she adds. “You’d be surprised how many people get their cats that way.”

“Great,” Simmons says glumly after he hangs up. “Apparently I have a cat now.”

His next step is the grocery store and the library. When he gets back to his apartment, a bag of cat supplies in one hand and a bag of books about cats and cat ownership in the other, the light’s blinking on his answering machine.

“Mr. Simmons, this is Willard Kraft, calling on behalf of Principal Larue. We’ve finished the interviews, and well, you’re the only qualified one of the bunch. In fact, you’re too qualified. I said that we should run a background check on you, but that’s apparently not in the budget. So congratulations. Come in next Monday and sign the paperwork. You’ll start in September.”

“I got the job?” Simmons breathes in disbelief. He plays the recording back again, certain that he’s misheard or that this is an elaborate prank, but the voice says the same thing. “Holy-- I got the job!”

He ends up dancing the Running Man like he’s seen on TV, giddy with excitement. “Guess who has a job? Guess who didn’t make a terrible life decision to quit law school and become a teacher? Guess whose dad can suck it?”

When he finally stops to catch his breath, the cat’s staring at him from the back of the couch, legs tensed like he’s ready to bolt if Simmons acts any weirder. Simmons beams at him, too full of goodwill to mind much that the cat’s claws are scratching up his furniture.

“Maybe you’re good luck,” he tells him, and then laughs. “Right. Like I believe in luck!”

Simmons swallows down another laugh, though he’s still giddy. “Well, I guess if you’re sticking around and I can afford to keep you, I should give you a name, right?” The cat’s ears prick forward, and it feels like he’s listening. “When I was a kid, I spent hours choosing the perfect name for a dog. I didn’t get one, of course, Dad said attachments like that would make me weak, but-- well, now I know a lot of names! I could call you Goethe or Alexander. They both had heterochromia. Or I could just rattle off names until you react. Do you like Christopher? Or Peter? Alvin?”

The cat keeps staring.

“Okay, none of those. Uh, hopefully your old owners didn’t give you some overused name like Oscar or Tigger. Or Leo.” Simmons waits a beat, but there’s no reaction. He sighs. “Maybe I should get a Baby Name book from the library and start rattling off names like Jeremy--”

He forgets about the bags until he trips over them. His arms pinwheel and his feet go out from under him. He has a split second to think that of course he’d die in the dumbest way possible, and then he hits the floor.

“Crap,” someone mutters above him. “Crap, crap, crap. Hey, don’t be dead, dude.” Something nudges his cheek. “I don’t wanna eat you, but I will if I have to. Days on the street will change a man.”

Simmons’ head pounds. When he opens his eyes, all he sees is a blur that slowly solidifies into the cat’s worried face. Both front paws are braced on either side of Simmons’ head. Simmons looks past him, searching for the person who apparently found him unconscious on the ground. “What…?”

“Oh, good, you’re not dead,” the cat says, and then his ears turn sideways and he licks the tip of his nose. “Uh, I mean, meow. No, wait, screw it. If we're doing this my name is not Jeremy, you sick freak. Who names a cat _Jeremy_? Call me Grif.”

“Great,” Simmons mumbles. He cautiously touches the back of his head. His fingers find a knot. “I’m hallucinating.”

“You totally are,” the cat assures him. “Also, you probably have a concussion? You should get that checked out.”

Simmons closes his eyes and groans.

 

* * *

 

**Present day**

Carolina didn’t think it was possible to sullenly eat ice cream, but Church is making an attempt. He scowls around each spoonful. When Grey goes back to the counter to order another scoop for herself, he whispers from the corner of his mouth, “We’ve got to ditch her.”

“Good plan,” Carolina whispers back. “Any suggestions on how?”

Church shrugs, a quick, jerky movement. “I don’t know, but-- Carolina, if she finds out some mortal has my spellbook, I’m in deep, deep trouble. I don’t want to be a cat!”

“A cat?”

“If you screw up badly enough, the Council turns you into a cat or another witch familiar. Sometimes for like a year, sometimes for--” Church’s teeth click together and he says in a totally fake voice as Grey returns, “This ice cream is great! Mort-- mundane creativity. Who knew there were so many flavors?”

Carolina pokes at her half-melted ice cream and wonders. What kinds of screw-up land a witch as an animal?

 

* * *

 

**Seven months earlier**

After a trip to urgent care, the first thing Simmons does when he gets back to his apartment is call his landlord and ask for a safety inspection.

Well, actually the first thing he does is check his answering machine one more time and then call Westbridge High to confirm he’ll take the job and to offer his services as a substitute in the meantime. Then he calls his landlord. Hallucinating a talking cat could just be from the concussion, but there’s also the possibility of a carbon monoxide leak.

There’s no carbon monoxide leak.

That night Simmons stares at the cat. The cat yawns slowly when Simmons says experimentally, “Grif?”

Simmons sighs. He still has a headache from his concussion, and he feels like an idiot. “Of course the cat didn’t talk to you,” he mutters aloud. He snorts. “Besides, what kind of name is Grif anyway?”

The cat growls.

Simmons spins to stare at at him. The cat blinks innocent mismatched eyes, but his tail gives him away. It’s puffed up and twitching in agitation. Simmons’ eyes narrow, and he swallows down a hysterical laugh. “Don’t like me making fun of your name?”  

The cat yawns again, this time the movement almost exaggerated, and covers his face with a paw and goes to sleep.  

Simmons stumbles over to the love-seat and sits down. His thoughts keep chasing themselves in circles. He bites at his nails until he notices, and then sits on his hands and thinks some more. He’s ruled out carbon monoxide, but there are still scientific reasons that explain the incident. His concussion is worse than the doctors thought, and he’s having a series of strokes that make him hallucinate. Or he’s a schizophrenic and this is the first signs of losing grip on reality.

Then there’s the unreasonable explanation: that somehow Simmons has discovered a talking cat. It’s all but impossible, but it’s also the only one that means Simmons isn’t crazy or brain damaged. He’ll go with it for the time being. Now he just has to prove the cat talks.  

The cat doesn’t talk. He eats his food and sleeps, and twitches an ear whenever Simmons says something to him, but he doesn’t make a sound other than the occasional snuffle as he dreams.

“Okay,” Simmons says on day four of this stalemate. “I guess I was just hallucinating. Brain damage is, well, brain damage.” He forces a laugh and then eyes the cat to see if he bought it. The cat just rolls over and starts licking a paw. “But that means I still need to give you a name. Not Grif. That’s dumb. Maybe I should go with something more descriptive. Spot! Socks! Tabby! Heterochromia is a bit on the nose, but--”

“Nope,” says the cat.

Even though he’s been hoping for it, Simmons still yelps in shock. “You do talk!” Hysterical laughter catches in his throat. His knees go weak and he ends up sitting on the floor, staring up at the cat. “I’m not crazy,” he says dazedly. “You’re a talking cat.”

“Eh, debatable on the not crazy part,” the cat says. “You talk to yourself a lot. But you’re not wrong about this.” He makes a movement, like he’s about to stick out a paw for a handshake, and then licks it instead, his ears going momentarily flat against his head. “If you try to call me Heterochromia or Jeremy, I will scratch your eyes out.”

“How are you talking? Your vocal cords--”

“That’s your first question? You’re such a nerd.”

Simmons flushes. “Excuse me for being curious about a physical impossibility!”

“Yeah, I’ll answer all your questions in one word. Magic.”

“Magic,” Simmons repeats. His stomach sinks, and he starts to feel sick. He was so desperate to believe he wasn’t hallucinating that he actually fell for his own insanity for a minute. He shakes his head. “Right. I’m hallucinating. Maybe I even hallucinated asking the landlord to check for carbon monoxide….”

“So that’s where you draw the line? You’ll believe in a talking cat, but magic is a load of BS?”

“Magic doesn’t exist!” Simmons says. His voice cracks. “If it did, someone would have proven it with science by now.”

“Uh, not if witches have anything to say about it.” The cat sighs. “Look, dude, you’re not crazy. And if you’d stop freaking out for a minute, I want to propose a deal.”

Simmons, about to scoff at the idea of witches, closes his mouth and frowns. This is a strangely detailed hallucination. He can see how the cat’s nose twitches and his ears flick nervously as Simmons stares at him. Despite himself, he’s curious enough to ask, “A deal? What kind of deal?”

“Sooooo,” the cat says, drawing out the word. He sounds uncomfortable. “Let’s just say I wasn’t always a cat. Lesson learned: don’t help anyone. But if you pretend to be a dumb mortal who doesn’t know I’m a witch familiar, you won’t get mind-wiped by the Council and my sentence might not completely suck. It could be the start of a beautiful relationship!”

“That’s a lot of world-building for a hallucination,” Simmons says weakly.

“Or you can have a mental breakdown instead,” the cat mutters. “Maybe I should just go live with the next jerk assigned by the Council. They can’t be worse than Hammer. Probably.”

“No, wait,” Simmons says. The cat’s a hallucination. Definitely. Probably. But if he isn’t, then Simmons is losing a chance to learn about magic. He sits up and leans forward so that he and the cat are face to face. “If you’re real, if magic is real, you can stay here. But you’re going to answer all my questions.”

“Okay,” the cat says. “But only if you give me real food. None of that canned cat food crap. And call me Grif.”

 

* * *

 

**Present day**

“So how was school today?” Kimball asks. She’s been smiling since she came back to the brownstone, so Carolina hopes that means her job interview with the local library went well.

Church opens his mouth, but all that comes out in an awkward, “Uh…..” He exchanges a look with Carolina, who just shrugs and swallows a mouthful of soup. Caboose proved to be a man of his word; he brought over about a gallon of chicken noodle soup an hour earlier. Carolina doesn't offer an excuse. She’s already juggling multiple secrets and lies at the moment, between being a witch and Church’s spellbook problem. She’s not adding another lie to Kimball to that mess.  

“Oh,” Grey says carelessly. “They wanted to play hooky. We saw a film and had ice cream afterwards.”

Kimball’s smile vanishes. “You did _what_?”

“We saw a movie and had ice cream.”

“ _Emily Grey, I left this house for five hours and--”_

 

* * *

 

**Six months earlier**

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Simmons snaps. “Witches have doctors and scientists, right? Surely someone’s compared mortal and witch DNA and cellular degeneration to see--”

“I mean I don’t know!” Grif says, sounding annoyed. His tail is puffed up and thrashing, and apparently he’s frustrated enough that he’s not sprawled out on the couch. Instead he’s pacing the back of it, digging in his claws in a way he knows Simmons hates. “I learned enough magic to pass my test, and then I didn’t really think about it.”

Simmons glares. “You said you’d answer all my questions. Half of the money I get as a substitute goes to feed your fat--”

“Yeah, I know what I said, but I didn’t realize you wanted to know about weird stuff,” Grif says. “I mean, cellular degeneration? DNA? Maybe if I had my spellbook, I could answer some of your questions.”

“It just doesn’t make sense! You just point your finger and say a rhyme, and magic happens? There has to be some sort of-- wait, spellbook?”

“Yeah, dude. All witches have a spellbook. Mine’s boxed up somewhere on Council’s orders, but if I had it, it probably has some boring history stuff for you in the front.”

Simmons gets hit with a wave of longing even more intense than when he bought his first computer. If he could get his hands on Grif’s spellbook, he could learn so much about magic. Maybe he could even try a few spells. Some of the ones Grif has described sound like basic chemistry, just with slightly odder ingredients.

His thoughts must show in his face because Grif says quickly, “I already told you, I don’t have any magic while I’m a cat, so I can’t get the spellbook for you. Plus, we’re both keeping our heads down, remember? The Council will only buy this if you keep pretending to be a dumb mortal.”

“Right,” Simmons says. He sighs.

Grif kneads the back of the couch for a few seconds. “Can you order some pizza?”

Simmons throws up his hands, apparently surprising Grif because his ears go flat and he hisses. He ignores his reaction. “That’s another thing! You defy the laws of nature and physics. You can eat onions without getting hemolytic anemia like all other cats. The average calorie intake for a cat your size is five hundred. You eat at least three times that. And that’s not even getting into the talking thing.”

Grif eyes him. “Magic is weird. So, is that a yes or no on the pizza?”

“Fine,” Simmons says. “But I’m getting vegetarian.”

Grif flops dramatically onto a cushion. “No……”  

 

* * *

 

**Present day**

The spell is relatively simple, once Church and Carolina hole themselves up in Church’s bedroom the next morning. The candle and the cup are set side by side on the floor, with the bell strung between them and everything encircled by salt.

Church lights the candle at the same instant Carolina drops the rowan seed into the water-filled up, and they both chant under their breaths,  “Earth, air, water, fire, help us find what we desire. Candle, cup, bell, seed, help us find what we need.”

The bell twitches, and then begins to chime, softly at first, and then more and more insistently, swinging pointedly towards the door.

Church stuffs it in his backpack, muffling the sound. “So it’s working,” he says, giving Carolina a big grin. “It should lead us straight to the book if it’s in someone’s locker.”

“And what if someone took it home?”

Church’s grin falters. Clearly that thought never crossed his mind. Then his grin returns in full force, albeit slightly sickly. “Uh. Then I guess we’re playing hooky again?”

Carolina points her finger at him, and ignores the way he winces like she’s going to accidentally transform him into a pineapple. “When we find your stupid spellbook, you are never, ever taking it to school again.”  

“I promise,” he says.

The bell chimes impatiently in his backpack the entire ride to school, earning a weird look from another girl on the bus until Church summons a CD player and pulls it out, making a show of wearing them and letting music blast from the speakers. When they get into Westbridge High, Church sticks his hand into the backpack, holding the bell. Carolina stays by his side to run interference as the bell tugs him down the hallway.  

The bell leads them down one corridor and then another, and finally into the cafeteria, currently set up for the morning study hall period.

Carolina narrows her eyes as the bell’s chiming gets louder and jerks towards the floor. She bends down and immediately spots the book, half under one of the wheels of the table. She almost curses, one of her mom’s favorite swear words on the tip of her tongue. “You said you retraced your steps!” she hisses, grabbing the book and throwing it at him.

He yelps, dropping the bell and juggling the book. He manages to catch it, but it’s a close call. He clutches it to his chest, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. “I did! I swear, I searched this entire room! I don’t…. This doesn’t…..”

He’s clearly going to sputter for a while if she lets him, so Carolina rolls her eyes and interrupts. “Sure. Put it in your backpack before someone asks why we’re in here.”  

“Right,” Church says. He scowls down at the book before he stuffs it into his bag. Then he mumbles to himself, sounding puzzled, “But I did look there….”

 

* * *

 

Simmons is almost bursting with curiosity. He tries to focus and set up for his first class before the first of his homeroom students start trickling in, but he keeps thinking about the spellbook, returned to where he found it. And then there's the potential identity of the teen witch. From what Donut has said about unexplained weirdness, the witch has probably been at Westbridge for a year, which means they're probably a junior or senior. He wants to know who's so careless with their spellbook and, if the indoor snowstorm the other week was any indication, careless with their magic, but Grif’s dire warnings about the terrible things the witch might do to him ring in his ears.  
  
Grif could be messing with him, but for once, Simmons doesn’t think so. There was enough urgency in his voice both last night and this morning to suggest Grif was genuinely worried.  
  
Still, Simmons drums his fingers against his desk and wonders. Who's this teenage witch? How desperately were they searching for their spellbook?

He glances around, but no one's entered the room while he's been lost in thought. Either the flu really has taken out half of the class, or everyone’s busy talking in the hall until the warning bell. He hesitates, and then gives in to temptation, reaching into his top drawer. Grif yelled at him about this too, but Simmons chose to ignore him. There was no way Simmons was just giving the spellbook back.

The binder isn’t quite big enough to hold all the photocopied sheets. Simmons had photocopied the spellbook in a rush, using the only binder he had on hand. It’s mostly staying together, but the strain is already showing on the spine and Simmons isn’t even halfway done with color-coding the spells and potions. There’s a couple that seem like basic chemistry, as he always theorized, some with a few unusual ingredients and an odd rhyme. There's so many that he’s longing to try.

He strokes a possessive hand over its cover. He’ll get a new binder tonight after work. He darts another glance towards the door, and opens the binder to one of the more interesting potions. If he didn’t know better, he’d think the ingredients were a joke or a trick. They seem too simple.

“Time Ball,” he murmurs to himself. “Ingredients: onion, garlic cloves, bunch thyme, halibut, sardines, lime juice, olive oil--”

The door opens and Simmons slams the binder shut, flushing.

“Good morning, Mr. Simmons!”

“Good morning,” he says, and slides the binder into the drawer. He forces a smile and tries for a casual voice. “Is there anyone else behind you, or are you the lone survivor of the flu epidemic?”

**Author's Note:**

> **Dishonorable Mention**
> 
> 1x14 - Feeling Blue - Everyone screamed over the mid-season finale, and was so impatient for the next episode. ....And then they gave us this, an episode where Simmons tries a spell and turns himself blue. Sure, it meant that mortals could potentially use magic, but it made even that reveal a cheap joke, and I'm still mad about it. Also apparently the poor actor was allergic to that face paint and miserable the entire time. In the end, we _all_ suffered.


End file.
